L O N D
O N.Printed for William
Welbie, dwelling
in Pauls Church-yard, at the signe of
the
Swan. 1613.

To the
right Honourable, EdwardEarle of
Worcester,
Lord of Chep-Stoll,
Ragland,
and Gower, Knight ofThe most Noble
Order
of the Garter,Maister of the
Horse,
and one of theKings most
honourable
PriuyC O V
N C E
L L.

S
to the most compassionate in this generall mourning (right Honourable)
I dedicate this Funerall Elegy to your gracious protection: wishing
with
my soule, I might haue had a more pleasing subiect, both for my Pen,
and
your Patronage, but since the Heauens haue giuen us this cause it is a
duty to entertaine the occasion, and an vnanswerable negligence to omit
it; pitty it were that Pen should euer more cast inke, that would not
make
the whitest paper mourne in so vniuersall a sorrow: To whom then may I
so aptly consecrate these Teares, as to your Honour? whose entire zeale
to the Prince liuing (as I am confident) equal'd the Best so (I am no
lesse
assured) your sorrow for his death hath exceeded the most, and (if I
may
offencelesse speake it) contended with the greatest. Accept, I intreate
your Honour, this my obliged duty to him, and euer acknowledged seruice
to you; wishing all future occurences, to be true, and essentiall
causes
of your ioyes: and this last, the last of your Teares.

Your
Honours mostAffectionately deuoted,T H O M A S
H E Y VV O O D.

TO THE READER.

W

Hy should I vnto any
priuate Peere,Commend these sorrows for
a Prince
like deere?To all sorts, Sexes,
Titles,
and estates.Liues there a man, that
when
his friend relatesThis Princes Fate,
(Though he
before were gladWith surplusage) when he
but
thinkes we had,But haue him not, though
he knowes
hee's Diuine,And cannot betterd be;
his eyes
droppe brine;If I may (mongst these
sad ones)
then includeThe Gentle, Base, the
Polisht,
and the Rude.If from the Head to
th'Heele,
this Land complaine,As well the learn'd
Clarke, as
the ignorant Swaine,If neither Country,
Citty, Campe,
nor CourteHath scap't this deluge;
but
we may reportAll drench't in't: euery
man
to haue wept his turne,And still in heart
(though not
in habit) mourne.To thee (ô Reader)
whoso-ere
thou be,I dedicate this Funerall
Elegie.But thou that canst not
read,
canst then but heare?If thy attention can but
force
one teare,For that it is as welcome
to
thy hand,As were those I loue,
that vnderstand.

Thine T. H.

A
Funerall Elegie,Of the late
most High
and Il-lustrious
Prince,
HENRY,Prince of
Wales.

___________________________________

S
all the land in sorrow and can IStill silent be? when eury Muse
exclamesOn Time, on Death, and on
sad Destiny?For H E
N R
I E S losse, cursing the fatall Dames,Mournes Christendome,
and
in a generall cry,Vp-roares her griefes,
whilst some
weake Phisicke blames Accusing Galen
of his want of skill That
where he
once can saue, doth oft-times kill.

Others on Soueraignty,
that
hath giuen powerTo Princes, others forfet
liues
to saue,Yet to their owne Times
cannot
adde an hower,Or keepe their bodies from
th'abortiue
Graue.Oh greedy Earth,
whose hunger
could deuoureSo choyce a gem! thou neuer
leau'st
to craue, More
rauenous
then the most raging fires,Earth
still the more it eates, the more desires.

What Muse shall I
inuoke?
To whom commitThe guidance of my weake
vnable
braine?Whose humble thoughts neuer
aspired
yetA pitch so lofty, or so high
a straine,A subiect for my weakenesse
farre
vnfit,As neuer hauing like cause
to complaine. Was euer
like
to this? seene, heard, or read? Th'Hope
of three Kingdoms (nay the World) is dead.

Whom shall I blame for
this great Crosse
of Crosses?This present want, which
Earth
cannot supply?To generall Europe,
the great Losse
of Losses.Had we put all our sinnes to
vsury,Could they haue yeelded vs
such Drosse
of Drosses?Had all the world deuis'd
one Tragedy, And
drawne the
proiect from a thousand yeares, From the
spectators
could it draw more teares?

This Vniuerse imagine a
Theatre,Nations spectators, and this
land
a stage,Was euer Actor, made by the
Creator,That better scan'd his part
vnto
his Age?'Mongst all compos'd of
fire, aire,
earth and water,So grauely yong, and so
vnmellowed
sage: Whose
Trunke
the Tombe exacts, as of a detter, Subiect
or Prince,
none euer acted better.

Nay who so well? yet as
oft-times
we see(Presented in a lofty
buskind stile)Achilles fall, Thersites
to scape free,The eminent Hector
on the
dead-man's fileNumbred and rank't, when men
more
base than heSuruiue the battell of lesse
worth
and stile. So
thousands
haue suruiu'd these mortall brals, Whil'st
amongst
millions standing, Henry fals.

Whom shall I blame for
this? Iust
heaven? oh no,Starres are their eyes, and
(with
so many) seeing,What cloud can hud-winke
all? besides
we know,The Maker that gaue Them and
Vs
our being,Whose out-stretcht hand
steares
all things here belowThe imprisned soules
from
their base bondage freeing, Being all
goodnesse,
he can neuer erre: Then vnto
whom
shall we the blame transferre?

To Earth? we know she
naturally breedsBoth Trees for vse, and
Plants that
onely springBut neither beare nor build:
both
flowers & weeds,Simples, hearbes, roots, and
euery
other thing,For smell or pallat, that
delights
or feeds.Should faire Pomona
to Vertumnus
bring Her
choycest
store, she could not deck her bower With such
a sweet,
faire, odoriferous flower.

Is not the Earth a
mother? and could
sheContentedly part with her
best-lou'd
Sonne?In whose creation Nature
was so free,That to compose him, she was
halfe
vndoneHer store she had so wasted:
for,
to beAs he was late, Ages
must
backward runne, And her
great Ware-house,
as in it first pride, With her
first
plenty must be new supply'd.

It was not Earth
then sure:
might it be Nature?Would she her choycest
worke-manship
destroy?Her best of fabrickes: both
for
beauty, stature,And all perfections mankinde
can
enioy?And in his growth, before he
was
full Mature,Vnto her owne pride could
she proue
so coy, As to
this height
of spight to haue transcended, To spoyle
so
braue a worke ere 'twas full ended?

Vnlesse I could imagine
one so fondTo build a gorgious pallace,
but
to race it:A cunning painter that hath
gone
beyondHis skill, in a faire
picture, to
deface itBefore the world his cunning
vnderstand.For one to make a rich suit,
and
ere grace it Cut it to
shreds.
Imagine these to be, Else from
his
sad fate I must Nature free.

On whom shall I this
blacke aspersion
cast?Vpon the Furies, Fiends,
and Hagges below,And say that Hell
had hand
in't at the last?Although I hate Hell,
I'le
not iniur't so;As stands Ione's Tree, whom
lightning cannot blast,So high, so broad, so
greene, this
plant did grow. As is the
Lawrell
from all Tempests free, So
thousand Hels
could haue no power o're Thee.

If neither Heauen,
Earth, Nature,
nor yet Hell,Or would not, or else could
not
act thy ruine,If none of these such
sorrowes might
compell,Both to this present Age,
and Times ensuing.What was it then? or who? Muse
canst thou tell?Resolue the world, and to
their
generall viewing Present
the cause
why in his prime of yeares, So great
a people
should be washt in teares.

It was not Fate,
his vertues
and choyce graces(Gifts both of Heauen
and Nature)
mixt with state,Had in his bosome those such
soueraigne
places,That he was arm'd against
all power
of Fate:Nor Time, though he
before
him driues, and chacesMinutes, dayes, months and
yeares:
till he call late Euery new
season;
to haue sau'd his Prime. From his
own
daies he would haue lent him time.

I may excuse Age, and
extent
of yeares:For they (alacke the while)
nere
saw each other.Oh had they met, we then had
spar'd
these teares,And sau'd this griefe, which
is
too great to smother,So milde, so graue, so
reverent, Age appearesHe would haue ioy'd to
imbrace him
as a brother, As youth
his
hopes: he would haue striu'd to raise His
fortunes,
beeing cloath'd in ancient dayes.

The Muses and the
Arts
I can acquite:For they are all too good to
act
such ill,Preposterous 'twere to
thinke them
oppositeSo farre to their owne life,
as
seeke to killHim through whose eies
they
did receiue their sight,And to whose practise they
confin'd
their will: Whose
actions
were his deeds, in whom they saw All
vertues grac'd
with a Maiesticke awe.

Nor would the Muses
haue giuen
such occasionOf their owne teares, which
they
so freely shed.What purpose then? what
motiue?
what perswasionHath bene the cause that we
lament
him dead?Or how came Death to make
this proud
inuasion,And casket vp this gem in
stone
and lead? Himselfe
could
not, (for he was all perfection) Bring his
faire
body to this low deiection.

'Twas that which
shattered Sylo,
made the earthGape, and deuoure both
Tribes
and Tents:That made the spheares
showre fire,
all Natures birthConfin'd into one Arke: that
all
discents,Degrees and Titles in one
generall
dearth,Swept from th'earths face,
that
beyond all extents, Limits
and bounds,
incenst Ioues indignation, To drowne
the
world in a deep inundation.

What monster may we call
this? Sinne: our
sinne,When one alone (and but one)
that
of pride,Cast Angels bright gloryes
in the
Abisme to hide;Since many millions we are
wrapped
in,As vgly and as horrid: deepe
sinnes
dy'd In bloud,
and
death; no wonder if they pull This
wrath on
vs, to make our griefes more full.

They were our selues
then, that our
selues haue madeThus haplessely distrest,
thus inly
sad.Yet as we reade, to haue the
rage
allai'dOf a deepe gulfe: the Romans
notice hadFrom th'Oracle, thay breach
could
not be staidTill Romes best Iewell
stopt it. Curtius clad In his
best Armes
and mounted on his steed, To saue a
People
did a Torrent feede.

So since this best of Iewels
England
stor'd,Hath stopt the gaping
entrailes
of the graue:Let after ages of this
Prince record,Hee freely gaue a life, a
land to
saueAs gold the Misers God (by
them
ador'd)Depends vpon the Sunne, from
him
to haue His
purity of
Temper, and as glasse, Showes
th'vtmost
vertue that the fire can passe.

By which they haue the
pureness not
to beeOthers then what they are,
strange
formes to take,And loose their natiue esse:
euen so Hee,Being the perfect'st worke
Nature
could make,Cannot conuert to Dust and
Earth
as We,Or his first Beauty in the
graue
forsake. Since
Nature
in his birth to him hath done, More then
to
Glasse or Gold, the Fire or Sunne.

The more we ioy'd to see
his vertues
grow,The greater are our sorrowes
for
his lacke;Excesse of ioy begets
excesse of
woe,Oft generall weale precedes
a generall
wracke.Oh! why should our best
pleasures
perish so,Like waters that passe by
but ne're
run backe? And yet
to make
vs euer thinke of Teares, Through
the waues
fleete, the Riuer still appeares.

I'le show the cause. Ioue
seeing earthly Pleasure,By Man so honoured that the
Gods
he hated(Being ador'd by Mortals
aboue measure)Cal'd her to Heauen there to
be
new instated,Shee straight disroabes her
of all
Earthly Treasure,As all must needes do, that
are
so translated, Griefe
banisht
Earth, whilst Pleasure heere made stay, Finding
her Habite
steales it quite away.

And in that forged Roabe
shee hath
deludedThe world with fading ioyes
and
transitory:For since shee first into
that shape
intrudedThere was on Earth no true
essentiall
glory.All constancy from Mankind
is excluded,Ioy hath no permanence:
finde mee
a story, That euer
hath
recorded Man so blest, But
happied once,
he hath bene twice distrest.

To tell his worth were
but to add
to sorrow,Like him that being rob'd,
still
casts the summe:The present fright so much
from
griefe doth borrowThat the instant feels not
whence
the passions come;The extasy once past, when,
on the
morrowThe cause is weighed, the
voyce
no more is dumme: The eies
that
had their conduits stopt before, Now
freely runne,
and the hearts griefe deplore.

No Oracles were weightier
then his
words,Those that should counsell
him hee
could aduise:Art had in him her
Mansion:
Princes swordsShould defend Art,
and
Art make Princes wise.They had ioyn'd league: his
fluent
braine affoordsA Library of Knowledge, and
vnties The
knotted'st
soryte; faire Parnassus well,The Muses did abandon, there
to
dwell.

As Mettals by the sound,
so could
he tryThe flashy from the sollid
when
they spake:Cleere was his iudgement, as
his
spirit was hye,His smile was mercy, but his
frowne
did shake.His aime was to know Art
and Chiualry,Save when to heauen he did
his vowes
betake.He studied Man: but
to be better farreThen man can be: He was
halfe Loue,
halfe Warre.

Hee was not swaide by
Fauours, but
Desart,Merite, not Flattery still
inioy'd
his pay:Hee would aduise before he
spar'd
his Heart,But lending it, not easily
tak't
away.Hee had that constant Vertue
not
to start,Or let (in his designes) his
iudgement
stray. Those
that were
next him, and his Fauours wore May
speake him
better, not lament him more.

Before he grac't he would
both proue
and know,He was not not idly lost,
nor rashly
wonne,His maine was Vertue, none
might
neere him grow,But such as truely knew to
chuse
or shunneGood things and bad: to
punish he
was slow,But apt to pardon: Hee was
as the
Sunne Amid the
Planets,
seeming so diuin'd, That all
about,
and neere him he out-shin'd.

Posterity, with greater
admirationThen I can blaze him, shall
embrace
his Fame,Those deluges of Teares
showr'd
from this Nation;Rather to blemish seeme,
then blanch
his name:Since all our Elegies begot
from
passion,Come from rent hearts, and
those
that griefe proclaime. Confused
thoughts
the best conceits destroy, And are
more
harsh then when we sing of ioy.

Being great in Name, his
study did
agreeTo make Him great in
Purpose: and
his deedsAnswere his Stile: His
Goodnesse
was so free,It wanted bound: one Royall
action
breedsA second still; the end of
one's
to be,The entrance to another that
succeeds.Honour
(the Manna of each generous Spirit) Was to
him as
the Crowne he was to inherit.

For well he knew if Fire
it
selfe should hide,By his owne Smoake it
would
it selfe betray,Or if that Water
should it
selfe diuide,(As weary of the world) and
steale
away:Yet by the Reeds plac'd by
the Riuer
side,She might be train'd, and so
be
made to stay. But Honour
fled, with it, it beares His tracke, No Time,
no Age can stay or call him backe.

His Spirits were all
actiue, made
of fire,Which (saue in trauell) can
admit
no rest.High were his thoughts, yet
still
surmounting hy're,His very Motiues Industry
profest.To be in Action was his sole
desire,And not to be so he did most
detest. To end
his Praise,
and proue him past compare,To
all his
Fathers vertues he was heire.

He was but yesterday, and
now is
fadedWho when we held him
deerest, was
then lost:So Lands that thinke them
saf'st
are oft inuaded,And when they least feare,
are afflicted
most.So the clear'st skies with
blackest
clouds are shaded,So Pleasures (thought
most
certain) soon'st are crost. For 'tis a
Maxime that shall euer stand:Pleasure
and
Sorrow still march hand in hand.

As Hector, had he
suruiu'd Troy
to see,From Iliams lofty
Tower his
yong sonne cast:Or such griefe Priam,
as
it was to theeWhen worthy Hector,
both
the first and lastOf all Troyes hopes,
sunke
dead, me thinkes I seeIn Royall I A
M E S, thy sorrowes quite surpast, With
double Anguish,
trebole passions fired, When he
first
heard Prince Henry was expired.

And your Maisticke ANNE;
when Hecub sawSweet Polymnestor,
all the
poore remaineOf her braue Issue, beat by
many
a blaw,And to the shore forc'd by
the billowy
Maine:Methinks from her face I
your griefe
could draw.And you Prince Charles,
next
of that royall straine; In yong Polytes
I your teares can tell, That day
in field
his brother Troylus fell.

For you (most hopefull
Princesse)
I compriseYour passions in a Dame
though not
so faire,Yet as those Times afforded,
beauteous,
wise,And with the best of that
age might
compare:Your Teares I reade in bright
Pollixen's eyes,That sonne which shee beheld
saw
none so rare, Though
you (but
once) she (oft) had cause of woe, Her, as
in beauty
you in griefe out-goe.

But in this plangor, whom
had I forgot,You my Mecænas? oh it
cannot
beThat I am so ingrate;
beloeue it
not,Though passion almost takes
my sence
from me:Oh let me neuer weare so
foule a
spot,As worthy Earle not to
remember
Thee. Thrice
noble Worster
gaue my Muse first wing, And from
his
bounty shee had voice to sing.

So should my bosome
harbour something
new,Ingratitude, with me, no way
agreeing:Then should I not remember
whence
I grew,Or from what power I first
receiu'd
my being:To mine owne heart I should
not
then be true,First hands forget your vse,
my
eyes their seeing: My tongue
thy
office, and my Muse her skill, That nere
more
inke drop from her ragged quill.

Pious Æneas
still when
I record,(A man in whom all vertues
were
compleate)When Priam's best of
sonnes
fell by the sword,How he abandon'd rest, ioy,
comforte,
meate,So oft haue I remembred you
graue
Lord,Equall in vertues, and your
griefe
as great. All those
glad
hopes you from his life did borrow You in
his death
haue backe repai'd with sorrow.

Yet why sould you bewaile
him since
he's pastThis Transitory raigne, for
one
ay-during,To vex your selues would but
his
soule distast:He hath but left a Crowne of
earths
assuringFor one immortall, that can
neuer
wast.Subiect to Time nor Age:
there's
no alluring Of
mortall pompe
can counteruaile the least Of
heauens pure
blisse (so are there ioies increast).

Auerre we then (and
without contradiction,)The losse is ours, but his
eternall
gaine,Tis his best good, all be it
our
affliction,That such a generall sorrow
we sustaine:Death that hath giuen him
this new
iurisdiction,Doubles his ioyes, as he
augments
our paine. Then as
we lou'd
him, let's reioyce in this, The
greater was
our losse, the more's his blisse.

Not for Him then, but for
our selues
lament:He needs them not, tis we
haue vse
for teares,He soiournes where can come
no discontent,Tis we that labour vnder
sicknesse,
yeares,Heates, colds, Distemprature
of
Elements,Dangers of body, and
th'amaze of
feares. From all
mis-fortunes
to the world decreed, (Of which
we
stand in doubt) hee's happy freed.

Not so for him then, but
for our
selues expendSoorses of sad and direfull
lamentation,Who see our Griefes
liue,
and our Hopes haue end:Since Death hath in
one blow
wounded a Nation,Since Heauen no
greater glories
can extendThen she enioyes, leauing vs
nought
but Passion, Since
should Death
breake his Dart, & ne're shoot more, He cannot
cure
the hurt he made before.

He that will act the
wonders of his
praise,Shall finde the world a
Theater
too small.Fame with her Trumpet
shall
his glories blaze;Yet (ere to their full
height) grow
hoarse withall,Whom who shall striue to
imitate
or raiseAn equall Hope to
his, needely
must fall
Prostrate, confounded
with his owne ambition, So farre
shall
he precede him in condition.

Therefore what my Pen
scans him in
his merit,With mine owne inward
Passions Il'e
supply.More then an Earthly
Prince,
hee's now a Spirit,Thron'd in a Kingdome, vnto
which
the SkyIs but a Foot-pace, euer
there to
inherit,Beyond all Time, to
all eternity. Where I
lament
not Hee is Thron'd and plac't, I onely
grieue
that Hee hath made such haste.